


feel you most when I'm alone

by orphan_account



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-12 01:04:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10478586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He could make a joke out of it and, normally, he would but receiving a text like that at two in the morning is a lot different than getting it during the day. ‘I need you’ at work meant: ‘I need your help with something I can’t figure out’ or ‘I’m doing a thing and, hey, I could use a second pair of hands or another brain’.‘I need you’ in the middle of the night was something else entirely.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to write something for these two. It was a disaster. After that embarrassment, I wanted to prove to both myself and everyone else that I could do better. I wrote this instead. I almost didn't post this and I've been wringing my hands over it since Tuesday but I'm tired enough that the Shia LaBeouf part of my brain yelling "JUST DO IT" finally won.

_I need you._

Blaine gets weird texts sometimes, it’s not out of the ordinary considering the people he’s friends with and he himself was guilty of sending off a strange or otherwise off-kilter message occasionally (maybe more than ‘occasionally’ but that was neither here nor there) but the one that had just popped up on his screen is making him feel like he’s got water in his ears—that is to say: he’s suddenly feeling just a little off balance. (It's possible the feeling could be the four beers he had before he'd crawled onto his mattress or maybe it was the fact that he was just on the edge of falling asleep when his phone almost vibrated off the table beside the bed. It _could_ be those but the three words he's staring at are definitely not helping.)

Nothing else comes after that, just those three words. He could make a joke out of it and, normally, he would but receiving a text like that at two in the morning is a lot different than getting it during the day. ‘I need you’ at work meant: ‘I need your help with something I can’t figure out’ or ‘I’m doing a thing and, hey, I could use a second pair of hands or another brain’.

‘I need you’ in the middle of the night was something else entirely.

Despite that, he lets a million possible responses crowd into his head ( _what else is new, you need me to what?,_ there’s a pun about ‘kneading’ and ‘bread’ in there but he thinks he only fumbles around with that idea because he’s just spent too much time with Barbara) but, in the end, he settles on:

_What’s up?_

It’s completely uninspired but it does the trick because he gets a response pretty much right away.

 _I’m drunk._  (Tension that he didn't realize he was holding in his shoulders eases because this is drunk talk, not 'I'm in trouble' talk.  _what a coincidence,_ Blaine starts to type, even though it's not completely true, he's just sort of fuzzy-headed but Miles' response comes through before he can hit 'send' so he hits delete, figures it isn't worth it.) _Where are u?_

 _Where am_ I _?_ Blaine writes back, _Where are you?_

_I’m home._

_What you need right now isn’t me, dude. You need to get some sleep._ There’s a lengthy pause after he’s sent it so he follows it up by writing his name.  _Miles._

 _Sorry_ , Miles sends back. _That was a lot of words._

 _Go to sleep_ , he writes and then puts his phone down, keeps it on just in case but it seems like that was going to be it, that he’d convinced him or maybe he’d fallen asleep in the middle of writing a response and he’s starting to lie back down, hoping that, eventually, he could take his own advice when his phone pings at him again. “Jesus Christ, Miles,” he mutters, reaches over, flips the phone over to stare at the screen and then immediately flips it back over, hiding it, feels his face get so pink and hot that it was like there was light switch somewhere that an invisible hand had flicked on. “Jesus Christ,” he repeats, takes in a breath.

 _You do know who you’re talking to, right?_ He asks.

_Blaine._

He’d figured there was a pretty definite chance none of this was meant for him, things happened, people had messy fingers, but that had just been completely obliterated. He could say no. It wouldn’t matter in the morning when Miles read this conversation back but, to a brain much more saturated in alcohol than his own, a blatant lie might actually work. He swipes back up, stares at the picture, rubs a hand over the top of his head.

 _Go to sleep_ , he writes again.

 _Ur no fun_ , Miles responds.

 _Oh, I am_ a lot _of fun and you fucking know it._

_Ur not now_

_I’m doing you a huge favor_ , he replies. _You’ll thank me in the morning_.

More silence. And then another picture.

 _Oh my god you have to stop_ , he says, tries to ignore the way he feels like electric sparks from live wires are popping in the back of his head.

 _You don’t like it_ , the response says and he hesitates. He can’t tell if that was supposed to be a question and he just wasn’t bothering with punctuation or if he meant it as a statement, had already decided that was how Blaine felt when, in reality, he was trying to put the jigsaw puzzle of his current emotions together and hope they somehow made a clear enough image in the end that it would reveal the right answer. He’s thought about it—God, he’s definitely thought about it—but Miles is wasted. And, besides, _thinking_ about it and being presented with the opportunity for whatever was about to happen was entirely different.

 _I’m not gonna take advantage of you_ , he says.

 _I’m not that fucked up_ , the response says. He's not that far gone. He knows what he's doing. Blaine takes in a deep breath and taps his thumb against the side of his phone.

 _What do you want from me?_ He’s dipping a toe in.

 _I want to see it_. That’s all he writes. Blaine waits for the follow-up, for clarification, but there’s nothing else.

 _See what?_ He doesn’t usually make himself sound so naive about this kind of thing but he’s also never talked to _him_ like this before outside of an obvious joke. He thought they always knew where to draw the line with each other, when to stop but this is uncharted water and he doesn't have a map—only a complete and utter moron would dive into that head-first. There’s another pause and he’s startled by the phone ringing. Miles is _calling_ him. He’s actually _calling him_ now. He almost considers not picking up but he can’t help himself, Miles has a hand around Blaine's ankle and is pulling him under.

“I want to see,” Miles says before Blaine’s even got a chance to consider forming words and Miles' voice is low, only slightly blurred around the edges, “What you really think about those pictures.” Blaine's palms are starting to sweat and he adjusts his grip on his phone, clears his throat, lets out a startled laugh, whispers _holy shit_ and hopes that Miles hadn’t heard it.

“Uh…” he says finally and thinks: _good going, real intelligent_. “You want...” He’s still dancing around this, he needs to hear the words right from his goddamn mouth because, otherwise, he won’t believe this is absolutely, unquestionably real. He’s still waiting for the punchline, for the _gotcha_ , the cackling. Miles is playing chicken with him and he might actually win. But then Blaine hears him say:

“I want you to touch yourself,” he says, sounding suddenly and alarmingly sober, “And I want to watch.” Blaine feels a shudder go up his back and into his shoulders and, okay, just _hearing_ that is making things happen already, the warmth on his face spreading to the rest of him. He hates it. He has to tell himself that he hates it at least because that's what he assumes he  _should_ be feeling but he's having a difficult time believing himself.

His rational mind and his body are talking but they’re both saying two entirely different things and he doesn't know which one to listen to.

“I— You—” Now or never, now or never, now or— “Okay.” He surprises himself by how easily he says yes considering how cautious he’s been up until then but the acquiescence comes out before he can swallow the word back down. (There’s no catching it, no putting it back in the animal part of his brain where he had found it.) Maybe he gives in because they’ve laughed about it, poked at each other, prodded, but somewhere in the backs of their minds, they both knew they were only eighty percent kidding each time. They just never had the guts to acknowledge it. How long have they been waiting for the other to finally cave? For Blaine, right at this moment, he realizes he’s been a dog balancing a treat on his nose for years, just waiting for someone to finally let him take it. (Or maybe his judgement is impaired _just enough_ to be making bad decisions). He wonders what triggered Miles to go for it. He wonders if, in the end, it really matters. “How do you want me to—?” He’d do it just like this, just let him listen, but it was pretty obvious that, for Miles, audio without the visual wasn’t going to cut it.

“Figure it out and make a movie for me, baby,” he says and  _shit_  that does it. If he wasn’t hard before he certainly was  _now_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says. “H— Hang on.” There are a million different ways he could do this but, if he wanted to give him the instant gratification that he figures Miles wants he knows what he has to do: he hangs up, hopes that Miles doesn’t take it the wrong way, fumbles with the screen and opens up the app for video messaging, taps Miles' name and listens to it ring. Miles answers immediately. He’s in the dark of his room, only lit by the glow of his own screen and he blinks in the light, pushes up a grin and then brings up his hand to rub his thumb slowly across his bottom lip.

“Are you hard right now?” He asks, voice rough.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” And then: “Let me see.” Blaine thinks he should hesitate, should try to drag this out, but his hands are working faster than his head and he leans over, props the phone up against a lamp on his bedside table, sits back and takes in a careful inhale/exhale through his nose, grips the top of his pants and lifts his hips enough to pull them down, elastic digging in against his slightly spread thighs and he hears him say something but it’s too quiet to understand.This went from zero to sixty so fast he almost has whiplash. He adjusts, shifts, presses the back of his skull against the headboard, stares up at the ceiling because he’s not sure he can handle staring at him instead. Does he start, does he wait, ask if he could? _Do I need permission?_  Blaine definitely hears him cursing and he also hears: "Don't keep me waiting, Gibson."

He grabs himself and closes his eyes, keeps his other hand busy, too, thinks about Miles being there, actually _there_ in the room and not on the other side of a screen, thinks about the sound of his voice when he’d called him _baby_ , when he’d said _I want to watch_.

"Slower," Miles says, "Go slow for me." He does and when Miles tells him to say his name he does that, too.

He can hear him making noises of his own and that just spurns him on and, when he finishes, he takes a minute to get control of his breath, to find tissues to start cleaning up and, when he finally turns to look at the phone, he sees nothing but black. Miles had ended the call but Blaine doesn’t know when and he feels a hot wave of embarrassment washing over him, wonders if maybe he fucked up or this really was just some gag that had gone too far but then it’s ringing and it’s just an ordinary call again.

“Was that—?” Blaine starts to ask and maybe Miles can read him too well or he just assumes what Blaine’s going for because he interrupts, says:

“No. That was— Shit. That was good.”

“Just good?” He says and he hears him laugh.

“That was beautiful,” Miles says. “That— I, uh.” He’s sounding flushed and tipsy again, soft but slightly astounded, maybe at himself for initiating this or at him for going through with it or maybe a bit of both.

“Did you—?”

“I did.” There’s a lengthy silence, just the both of them breathing.

“Are you even going to remember this in the morning?” Blaine asks.

“I told you,” Miles says, “I’m not that fucked up.” More silence.

“Are we going to talk about this in the morning?” Blaine asks, rephrases the question.

“We could.” A pause. “Or you could call me again tomorrow night and we could talk about it then.”

“Or we could do that,” Blaine says and then: “Miles?”

“Yeah?”

“Go to sleep,” he says, just as he had twice before, before any of this happened.

“Okay,” Miles says and hangs up.

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate Title: Too Many Italics.
> 
> Are you guys tired of me yet or what?
> 
> I feel sort of bad for locking this but what can I say: I get nervous about this stuff sometimes and, for some reason, I feel a lot weirder about this one than I did about that FH one that was probably just as bad.


End file.
